Those flowers I picked….
They look like wounded butterflies,
the way time has eaten away at the petals
leaving a stench of grey that makes me wonder
about what we have left to come.

I’m sorry your dreams were so much bigger than mine.
The falling stars we wished on left trails to follow,
and as the burnings cease,
I’m left encased in darkness
while you run away towards the light.

Maybe things would have seemed lighter under ground
where we’ll all lay our heads for the last time
and the guilty sunrise will not matter.
The world cannot be as harsh as the hells we’ve created.
The way we come back from battles,
scabbing with wounds,
and they pay us in salt like we’re stronger.

You know what,
I’m going to be the first to say
I don’t give a damn about what I don’t know.